


Second Date

by aeli_kindara



Series: First Date 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergent, Canon Universe, Castiel Drives the Impala (Supernatural), Dating Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Goes to Therapy, Fishing, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Movie Night, POV Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Road Trips, Season/Series 15, brief allusions to past non-con, but ultimately fluff let's be clear, diverges after 15x14, navigating toward sexual intimacy, please check notes for additional warning, struggling with free will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27723620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: “For our second date,” says Cas, “I thought we could go fishing.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: First Date 'Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027849
Comments: 136
Kudos: 644





	Second Date

**Author's Note:**

> Ok! So, this is a sequel to my 15.14 coda, [First Date](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027849). It's called Second Date. I think the logic here is fairly self-evident.
> 
> That being said, this one is in Dean's POV, and he's grappling with some heavier themes than the last one really got into — his issues with being manipulated by Chuck, his history of trauma (including two brief allusions to past non-con), and how those play into this new dating-Cas thing. We're definitely staying ultimately fluffy and there's lots of that to balance out the angst, but this fic does delve deeper into those themes, so ymmv.
> 
> One major **content warning:** Early in the fic, Dean has a pretty disturbing nightmare. I'll summarize it in the end notes if you want to check. If you want to just skip it, jump from _He’s unconscious almost before he hits the pillow, his phone cradled against his chest_ to _When he checks his phone, he winces_.
> 
> Many thanks to Natalie and Cass for all their help and feedback on this one! <3

#### (1.)

Something Dean wonders sometimes — wonders, but never asks — is how memory works for an angel.

He knows Cas has had his memories fucked with plenty of times, creeps like Naomi drilling into his goddamn _brain._ That’s one thing. But then there’s also — how does Cas’s memory work on a given Tuesday? Does he forget things? Do they get hazy with time — does he edit them without realizing? Does he ever look back and hope he said what he meant to, got the words right? Or can he pull it all up like a text message chain, a perfect record, no room for doubts?

If Dean asked, could Cas recite their conversations back to him? The one where he left. The one where — later, too much later — Dean finally asked him to stay.

Only he’s not quite sure that he did. He remembers: _I should’ve stopped you._ He remembers: _I forgive you, of course I forgive you._ He remembers: _I don’t know why I get so angry sometimes —_

And he remembers his rush of relief, rounding that tree and seeing Cas, whole and alive and safe — the overwhelming relief that finally, finally, he gets to ask Cas to _stay._

But Cas acted as if he already had. And now Dean can’t remember.

It doesn’t matter, really. He’s asked since then. He’ll keep asking, as long as Cas lets him — and Cas keeps letting him. It feels like it gets easier every time.

Still, he wishes — just a little bit, maybe just selfishly — he could remember if he got it right on the first try.

\---

“For our second date,” says Cas, “I thought we could go fishing.”

Dean looks up. “Fishing?”

“Yes. It’s an activity that has meaning to you, and one that we both enjoy.”

Sometimes Dean isn’t sure Cas doesn’t talk like that on purpose — he’s plenty capable of toning down the bluntness these days. He must know Dean kind of likes it, though.

_Dean,_ echoes Cas’s voice in his head. _May I kiss you?_

Dean shivers.

They haven’t since that night. It’s pretty weird living with someone who you’re also — dating. Going on dates with. Whatever that is. He thinks about kissing Cas _all the time now;_ about walking down the hall and knocking on Cas’s door and walking him right back inside it. About what if Cas came to _his_ room; about what if Cas surprised him in the shower —

He also spends a lot of time thinking about things more than kissing.

“Dean?”

Dean shakes himself. “Yeah,” he says. It comes out throaty. “Yeah, I’d — like that.”

Cas hesitates. Then he spreads a map on the table. “If you would be — amenable,” he says, “there’s a place I spent some time last fall. It’s a day’s drive, though. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Dean looks down at the map. _Jenny Lake,_ it says. There are markers for fishing spots; there are also red circles, half rubbed off the waterproof map paper. Some of them have dates written next to them, names. “Cas,” he says, “this looks like a hunt.”

“The sheriff was a djinn. I took care of it.”

Huh. Dean can’t say he’s ever regarded his old hunts as ideal vacation spots; maybe he’s missing out. “Sure,” he says. “That sounds good.”

It’s only several minutes later that he realizes what he’s agreeing to. A road trip — a day’s drive each way. A night in a motel, or more likely, two — with no Sam. Will they take separate beds? Separate rooms? How exactly the fuck is he supposed to go _on a date_ with Cas, and share a motel room with him, and not fuck him?

Does Cas even want that? Dean told him he wanted to wait until the third date, like some sort of old-fashioned chivalry shit, but maybe Cas is impatient. Which, _that’s_ a thought he won’t mind spending some time with, but it also kindles a low flame of panic in his belly.

The thing is — Dean’s good at one-night stands. Two-night, even. He likes sex; he likes making people feel good. And then — then he’s done. They’ve gotten what they want from him, the best thing he has to give; they wouldn’t want to stick around anyway.

He feels something hot and desperate clawing up the inside of his chest; his throat closes up. Maybe he’s read this all wrong. Maybe Cas never wanted a — a relationship, or at least not any more than they already had. Maybe he thinks if he can get Dean in bed on a second date, they can dodge that whole _commitment_ bullet entirely.

_Stupid, stupid,_ he scolds himself. _You remember all the things he’s said to you, right? You remember how he looks at you? You remember what he told you about holding your soul in his hands?_

Only he doesn’t — remember. Not perfectly. What if he only heard what he wanted to? _You’re still here,_ he told Cas, and Cas agreed, _still here,_ but maybe he didn’t mean that like Dean did. Maybe he meant — for now. Until something better comes along.

This is where he needs that text message scroll for real life; certainty is slipping through his fingers. The more he examines his memories, the less he trusts them. Maybe he’s already turned them over in his head too much, smoothed them into what he wants to believe. Human minds are too slippery, too suggestible —

A horrible thought stops him dead in his tracks.

What if they aren’t? What if it’s just _his_ mind, _his_ memories? What if it’s all just — Chuck?

His hands are trembling. He has to try twice to swallow.

He makes it back to his room with his heart in his throat, terrified that each time he turns a corner, Cas will be there, or Sam, or Jack. Inside, he sinks to the ground with his back against the door, and closes his eyes, and breathes through his nose. Just breathes and waits for the panic to subside.

\---

The panic doesn’t subside.

Or maybe it does, but it’s like a tide on a rocky coast — it leaves pools everywhere. They’re full of strange spiky creatures, specimens of fears he didn’t even know he had. For the rest of the day, he doesn’t leave his room.

He tries a couple times to jerk off — that usually helps him relax. But he can’t get much further than unzipping his fly before he’s thinking about Cas, and when he starts thinking about Cas, he starts thinking about — everything. And then the tide rolls back in full force, churning up everything in its path.

Sleep is elusive. He makes it to about five thirty in the morning before he goes to Sam for help.

Sam is up, because of course Sam’s up, getting ready to go for his run. He looks startled when a bleary Dean knocks on his door, then pokes his head in; he’s already got earbuds in his ears. He pulls them out. “Hey, man — what’s up? Did you — sleep?”

Dean shrugs. He tries to give his brother a smile. “Not so much. I, uh — been getting all in my head again about — Chuck. What’s real and what isn’t. All that jazz.”

Sam nods. Cautiously, he sets his phone down on the nightstand, his headphones clicking against the wood. “Eileen’s been struggling with some of that stuff, too. Do you want — I’m happy to talk through it with you, man.”

But Dean shakes his head. “Nah. I — nah, it’s not. Uh.”

“Dean. You can talk to me.”

“No, it’s not — um.” Dean shakes his head quickly. “There’s some things I — really don’t think you’d want to hear about, if you catch my drift.”

It takes Sam a beat; then his eyes widen. _“Oh._ I — how’s that going, with Cas?”

“Sammy. What did I just say?”

The appalled look on his brother’s face is almost enough to make Dean laugh; to ease some of the tension in his chest. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to ask you. I was wondering, uh. You’re still in touch with — Mia, right? Vallens? From that shifter case?”

Sam’s eyes widen as he catches Dean’s drift. “Oh! Dean, that’s a _great_ idea. Yeah, I’d be happy to give you her number. I think you’ll find her really helpful, honestly, she’s —”

Dean holds up a hand. “Spare me the sales pitch. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Right.” Sam swallows. “I’ll, uh — just text you her contact, I guess?”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean raps his knuckles twice on his brother’s door as he turns away. Embarrassment fights with accomplishment in his chest all the way back down the hall.

\---

He gets the text from Sam just a few minutes later. It’s a contact card; he saves it to his phone before he can hesitate.

Then he debates what to do next. It’s too early to call. But he feels kind of like — if he closes out of the contact now, he’s never gonna find the courage to ask.

So he types out a text.

_Hey Mia, this is Dean Winchester. My brother gave me your number. I was wondering if I could —_

What should he say? Make an appointment? Talk about therapist stuff? She might not even be practicing anymore. It’d be understandable, after what she’s been through.

He deletes the last sentence.

_Hey Mia, this is Dean Winchester. My brother gave me your number. Thought you might be a good person to talk to about some shit I’ve had on my mind. Let me know._

He hits send before he can think twice about it.

Then he yawns. Abruptly, the weariness of the last day and a half hits him. The fizzing nervous energy in his chest feels easy enough, finally, to let him sleep.

He’s unconscious almost before he hits the pillow, his phone cradled against his chest.

\---

He dreams about Cas.

In the dream they’re back on the bluff by the river. Baby’s metal gleams faintly in the starlight; the air is chilly, but her engine is still warm.

_Dean,_ says Cas, _may I kiss you?,_ and then he does.

He draws back an instant later — just like he did in real life. Dean pulls him down for another kiss — just like he did in real life. Just like in real life, he feels his heartbeat surge toward Cas’s, drawing his body with it, pressing them rib to rib. He puts his hand on Cas’s face and on Cas’s thigh and on Cas’s hip, he clings to him, he opens.

But this time he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t want to stop Cas; he wants everything.

He wraps his legs around Cas’s hips and revels in the way his jeans pull taut against his skin. Cas cups two hands around Dean’s ass, hitches him higher — and a sound punches out of Dean’s chest. He has his hand clamped on Cas’s shoulder, fluttering across Cas’s cheek, and Cas turns his head and nips the pad of Dean’s thumb.

_Good. That’s good._ The thought — the voice in his head — doesn’t feel quite like his own.

They’re unbuttoning each other’s shirts. Hasty, needy, fingers catching on buttons, impatient on seams. Dean gets there first — he’s got more experience than Cas, after all — and gets his hands on his chest, his ribs. Skims fingers down to urge at his hips, showing him, and after a moment Cas follows his lead and ruts hard against Dean’s ass.

Dean’s shoulders scrape against the metal. He lets out a bitten-off cry, and his head falls back, hitting Baby’s hood with a _thunk._ The next moment, Cas’s hands are on his scalp, checking for damage. He cradles Dean’s skull as if it’s a precious thing.

_Cas,_ Dean says, _Cas, will you fuck me?_

_Please, please, please,_ he wants to add, but Cas doesn’t need more urging. He presses Dean back to the metal, both hands on his shoulders, and then he’s flipping him — bending him over the Impala’s hood. Dean laughs as his cheek touches metal. Cas is undoing his jeans, working them down over his ass.

Dean closes his eyes and lets the sensations roll through him. Lets himself ride the fullness and the burn — drink in the sound of Cas’s ragged breathing. Only when Cas finally bottoms out — rolls back and thrusts again, hard, sparking a wave of pleasure that washes down Dean’s limbs — does Dean open his eyes.

Chuck is standing on the other side of the Impala’s hood, watching him.

Fear floods, metallic, across Dean’s tongue. He tries to yell, but he can’t. He can’t move.

“That’s good,” Chuck murmurs again, as if to himself. He’s wearing a half-smile of satisfaction, eyes gleaming, but the look on his face is scornful. Almost bored.

Lilith, suddenly, is by his side. She widens her eyes meaningfully. “I _told_ you he had a pervy obsession.”

And there are other forms flickering around them, other voices. Lisa: _He was never quite like this with me. But then, I suppose his head was half in that box with his brother —_

Alastair. _Go on. It doesn’t hurt to mix a little pleasure in with all that pain._

Dad, _Dean, you’re on broken-down car routine, Sam and I will move in when we’ve got a clear shot, just keep her talking —_

Dean wakes up gasping.

His heart is hammering behind his ribs, his head roaring. He’s still turned on, horribly so, but his erection is fading fast.

He hunches over his knees and drops his forehead and breathes.

It’s several minutes later that he finally sits up. His head feels strangely empty and clear. There’s one thought in it, insistent. _You need to talk to a goddamn therapist._

When he checks his phone, he winces. It’s 2:34pm. He has a text from Mia, hours old. _I have openings today at 2 and 3. Let me know whether you’d prefer Zoom or a phone call._

_Sorry,_ he types back hurriedly. _3 would be great if you’ve still got time. I can do a phone call_

The answer appears almost instantly. _3 it is. I will call you._

Dean checks the time again. He has twenty-two minutes. That’s enough to brush his teeth, even jump briefly in the shower. He grabs his robe on the way out the door.

\---

It’s on the way back from the shower that he rounds a corner and collides head-on with Cas.

He looks like he always does, tan trenchcoat, white shirt, blue tie, but for some reason it takes Dean’s breath away. He keeps catching himself reacting to Cas like this, ever since their date; like it’s almost too much to believe he’s _real._ A physical presence right here in the bunker.

Cas puts a hand on the wall to catch his balance, and suddenly Dean’s aware of his own body — his hair, mussed and damp, his robe hanging loose at his sides. The way his t-shirt clings to his chest; the heat of the shower steam still rising off his skin.

He sees Cas’s eyes widen a fraction. Then he sees him school himself to calm.

A rush of affection fills Dean’s ribcage. “Uh, hey.”

“Hello, Dean.” Cas hesitates a beat before smiling, sudden and genuine, like his mouth doesn’t quite know if it’s done this before. His eyes are warm. “How are you today?”

“I’m — pretty good,” Dean answers, and it suddenly doesn’t feel like a lie.

He finds himself caught there — drinking in Cas, the crinkles around his eyes and the look on his face — struggling to figure out how to voice any of the other feelings swimming around in his chest. There are a lot of them; he doesn’t know any of their names.

But before he can try, in the pocket of his robe, his phone starts to buzz.

Dean presses a palm to it, startled. _Mia._ “I, um — I gotta take this. I’ll see you later?”

“Yes, of course.” Cas steps out of his path.

Still, Dean hesitates. His phone vibrates again. “Right,” he says quickly, and hurries past Cas, back to his room.

\---

“Dean,” is the first thing Mia says. Her voice is pleasant, musical, deliberate. “It’s nice to hear from you again.”

“Yeah, uh, same.” Dean hesitates — how does this work? Is he allowed to make small talk, or not? But he wants to know, so he asks: “How’ve you been getting on?”

If he isn’t supposed to ask personal questions, Mia doesn’t show it. “I’ve been well, thank you. I’ve relocated and started up a new practice, and it’s going well so far. Your brother has referred me a number of people, in fact, who wouldn’t be able to speak openly to a regular therapist — you understand if I don’t go into detail about their backgrounds, but there are many hunters and monsters alike whose mental health needs have never really been served.”

“Right — yeah.” Dean blinks. He’s never really thought about that. He struggles for a moment to catch up; then he realizes they’ve lapsed into silence. Is he supposed to be the one saying something? “So, uh — how does this work?”

“Our session will be an hour long. You may talk about anything you like, but if you’re unsure where to start, I’d suggest telling me what prompted you to request this appointment — what your goals are in speaking to me.”

“Right.” Dean swallows. He feels like a broken record. “Well, uh — I dunno about goals. I guess my goal is to not be a fuckup, but I dunno how much you can help me with that.”

He pauses. On the other end of the line, Mia waits quietly.

So he plows on. “What prompted me is — uh — well, I’ve got this new — relationship, I guess. But I also found out pretty recently that my entire life has been one long manipulation by _God,_ and I’m trying to not freak out that the — relationship could be too.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I see,” Mia says. Her voice is dry. It’s impossible to tell if he’s startled her or not. “Well — I think it might work best to circle back to the God question. Why don’t you tell me about this relationship, first?”

\---

No one’s ever asked Dean to tell them about Cas before.

That’s not true. He’s sure it isn’t. He explained Cas to Mom, after all; Charlie was always asking about Cas. With Charlie, though, with Mom, he never wanted to — let on too much. He didn’t want them asking questions he didn’t want to answer. And now that “too much” is where he’s _starting_ from — he doesn’t know where to begin.

“Well, um,” he says after what must be several minutes of awkward silence, “he’s — a friend. My best friend. And I’ve — kinda, for years, I never thought anything was gonna happen, but I guess I — asked him out. A couple weeks ago. And he said yes, so we went.”

“Does your friend have a name?”

“Castiel.” Dean smiles; he’s not used to the extra syllables these days. “Cas.”

“All right.” A pen clicks, faintly, on the other end of the line. “Tell me about Cas.”

Dean swallows. Where the fuck is he supposed to start?

But it turns out it’s surprisingly easy. He blurts the first thing that comes into his head, which is, “So he always wears this trenchcoat —”

And then he’s off and running. He explains how Cas is an angel, how Jimmy Novak died years ago and left him in sole possession of his body; he explains about how Cas likes burritos and burgers and peanut butter and jelly and is slowly learning to conjure taste out of molecules. He explains how Cas lives down the hall and how that makes it _fucking weird_ to be sort-of-dating and not know how to act around each other. He explains about the bunker, about having a home, how fucking huge it was to have a place of their own for the first time since he was four years old. He tells Mia about the years he kept hoping Cas would move in — _stay_ — and knowing it was stupid. And about how Cas finally did.

He tells her, haltingly, about the times Cas has died. The ones long ago, during the Apocalypse, the fight for Heaven, the Leviathans. He tells her about Purgatory. He tells her, more slowly still, about the time Cas died again. For good, it seemed like. He tells her about Cas’s wings burned into the ground.

“And I,” he tries to explain, “I didn’t know what to do. I was just — wrecked. Like I didn’t — want to be alive, like I _wasn’t_ alive, but I had to — keep going through the motions. I, uh.” He swallows. “I prayed to God to bring him back.”

After a moment, Mia asks, “And did he?”

“No.” Dean swallows again. “It — it was Jack.”

He can hear a pen moving across paper, faintly. Then Mia asks, “And was that what prompted you to speak to him about your feelings?”

Dean blinks. “What? No. This was years ago. It was — well, it was around when we met you.”

This time, he knows he’s surprised her.

After a moment, she says, “Your grief — it was for him, as well as your mother.”

Thinking about it makes Dean’s throat feel rough. “Yeah. I — yeah.”

“Have you ever talked to him about it?”

His first instinct is to fire back, _Sure, of course I have._ Instead, he stops to think about it.

He hasn’t told Cas about that, really. He hasn’t at all.

“You, uh.” He clears his throat. “You think I should?”

“That’s up to you. But I think you and he might both find it valuable.”

“Right.”

He seems to have run out of words to say. A few minutes ago, he felt like he could talk about Cas forever, and now he’s caught in nothingness — stuck on those awful weeks without him.

“If that isn’t what gave you the impetus to ask him out,” Mia prompts gently, “what did?”

It takes him a moment to catch up. _What did?_

Dean’s been asking himself that question. He’s been asking himself that question a lot.

“I guess,” he says slowly, “I’ve always been — scared he’ll leave. I mean, he always _is_ leaving, running off to figure out what’s going on in Heaven or — I figured someday he’d just fuck off for good. I mean, why wouldn’t he? And then he did.”

“He left?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes are burning. “But it — but I — it was my fault. I was angry at him. About the — God stuff. And I didn’t stop him.”

There’s a long silence. Then Mia says, “I take it he came back.”

When Dean draws in a breath, it sounds like a sniffle. He ignores it. “Yeah. He did.” He wishes suddenly that he could see Mia’s face; that he had someone to direct his words at other than the empty room. “And then — there was, uh. I kinda — told him how I felt, or I tried to, not all the — romantic stuff or whatever, but that I was — sorry. And sorry about getting so angry, and that I shoulda stopped him — I shoulda asked him to stay.”

“How did he react?”

_You don’t have to say it. I heard your prayer._

“Good,” Dean says, “I guess.”

It feels so inadequate. It doesn’t seem like it should mend all the shit that’s passed between them. But Cas is still here.

“Dean,” says Mia gently, “we’re close to wrapping up. I’d like to ask you — you mentioned that you have been on one date with Cas, and are planning another. When will that be?”

“Friday,” Dean answers promptly. He has three days to strong-arm his sleep schedule back into something like normal. Maybe he should stay up all night on Thursday — get himself tired enough that the motel room problem won’t be a problem. For one night, at least.

“I’d like to talk to you again between now and then,” Mia’s saying. “I realize we haven’t gotten into the God question at all, and I suspect it’s something we could work on for many sessions together, but we can at least discuss your immediate concerns this week. Is that something you want to do?”

“Yeah, uh,” says Dean. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he is; it feels like he’s barely been talking for ten minutes. “Yeah — when were you thinking?”

They set an appointment for the next day at eleven. “And, uh,” says Dean, remembering, “could we actually — do you think we could do Zoom? Feel like it might be less self-conscious, with an actual person to talk to.”

“Of course. I’ll send you an invitation.”

He can hear her pen scratch for a moment longer, then the click of her setting it down.

“Finally, before we go,” she says, “is there anything you’re concerned about between now and then? Anything I can help make a plan for?”

“Nah. Tuesday’s movie night. I think I’m good.”

She laughs. “All right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Dean.”

He realizes he’s smiling. “Yeah, talk to you then. And, Mia — thanks.”

#### (2.)

A year ago, before Jack died, they started working their way through the Disney canon on movie nights.

Usually, they’d alternate. Start at the beginning — _Snow White, Pinocchio_ — then back to the new stuff, _Frozen, Moana_. Mom had never seen a ton of it, but she got nostalgic as hell about what she had. Turns out, she really loves Disney movies.

_Loved,_ Dean reminds himself. Sometimes he wishes he could remember that from when he was a kid. Not just the things she told him — about watching _The Sword in the Stone_ eight times through on a snow day, about how much he apparently loved _Cinderella_ — but his own memories, too.

He’d have been three or four. Sammy at four was fucking cute, but _annoying._ He wonders if Mom ever got annoyed at him. She must have. It’s dumb to imagine she didn’t.

They made it through the classics, more or less — the stuff Mom already knew. It was the movies Sam and Dean grew up with — ‘80s, ‘90s even, _The Little Mermaid_ and _Beauty and the Beast_ and _Aladdin_ — that she never had the chance to see.

Dean would’ve liked telling her about those. About the times he and Sammy used to buy two tickets and spend the whole day theater-hopping — how they’d sneak into R-rated movies at the end of the night. They’d do it around Christmas, usually, or in the heat of the summer when their motel room had a busted AC. It’s funny how those movies still go together in his head: _Lion King_ goes with _Speed_ goes with Sam whining about spending three hours sitting through _Wyatt Earp._

They haven’t gone back to the animated-movie well since Mom died. If Dean thinks about it too long, he’s gonna feel shitty, or more likely angry, so he doesn’t. He just rounds the corner into the TV room and declares, “I was thinking — we should pick up on Disney again.”

Sam and Jack are already there. They both look up at him, startled — then at each other. They both blink.

Before either of them can speak, though, footsteps sound behind Dean, and he turns.

There’s Cas, and if he took Dean’s breath away earlier, that’s nothing on now; that’s nothing on Cas bearing an enormous bowl of popcorn and looking like some kind of movie night god.

Dean’s knees feel suddenly weak. _I was wrong,_ he thinks vaguely at Mia. _I needed a plan after all._

He used to think all those nights he and Cas spent watching movies on his laptop were torture. Just the two of them, propped up on pillows, the screen between them. Legs hanging off opposite sides of Dean’s bed. Torture, but one of the good kinds. He always tried to be so careful. Not to turn too obviously to watch Cas watch the movie. Not to idly brush their hands.

Was Cas sitting there the whole time wishing he would?

_I’m in love with him,_ Dean thinks, in a sudden burst of clarity. _I — love him, I’m in fucking love with him, and what am I supposed to do?_

“Hey, Cas,” he manages, and his voice barely wobbles; he’s proud of himself. “We were thinking maybe — get back on the Disney horse?”

Cas’s eyebrows knit, briefly, as he puzzles together _get back on the horse._ “Just so I’m clear,” he says after a moment, “you are _not_ talking about the horse from _Tangled.”_

From behind Dean, Jack clears his throat.

It’s a delicate sound, like he’s only just learned to do it. When Dean turns, he’s got a puppy-dog face on, some unholy mix of Sam and Cas expressions. “Actually,” he says softly, “I think — I don’t think I would feel right doing it without Mary.”

Dean feels his expression slacken as the words hit him in the gut.

But then Cas is at his side, a hand on his shoulder. Something steadies. The buttery scent of popcorn fills his nose.

Sam is sitting up in his chair. “Then what about something that’s not Disney? Like — Pixar, or something.”

It’s a lifeline. Dean grabs it, turning, and levels a triumphant finger at his brother. _“Balto.”_

Sam frowns. _“Balto?_ I thought that _was_ Disney.”

“Nope. DreamWorks, or — whatever it was before DreamWorks. You remember how obsessed you were with seeing that movie? You were like twelve, and you didn’t wanna _admit_ how bad you wanted to see it, but you had this whole thing about dogs.”

Sam frowns, but then he laughs. “That was when we saw _Twelve Monkeys,_ right?”

“Yep. New Year’s ‘96.” Dean ticks them off on his fingers. _“Jumanji, Balto,_ that Jane Austen one with uh, Kate Winslet and Alan Rickman —”

_“Sense and Sensibility,”_ Cas supplies.

Dean can feel himself blushing slightly. “Yeah, and _Twelve Monkeys._ What a night.”

“You should _not_ have let me watch that movie,” Sam says. “Someone should have thrown us out of that theater. I had nightmares for weeks.”

“Listen —”

Cas says, “I think Jack should decide.”

Dean stops up short.

Jack’s eyebrows are still drawn together. He looks between them all for a moment, and Dean feels strangely guilty; then Jack’s expression clears to a smile that’s pure sunshine. _“Balto_ sounds — nice.”

“All right.” Dean moves away from Cas, missing the hand on his shoulder almost as soon as it’s gone. _“Balto_ it is, then.”

\---

It’s not like it’s unusual for Cas and Dean to wind up sitting on the couch together during movie night. Cas makes the popcorn, after all. Dean doesn’t want him out of arm’s reach.

This time, though, every casual physical contact feels more loaded than it used to. Grabbing Cas’s shoulder when he turns to fire a remark at Sam; their elbows bumping when Dean laughs. Cas’s knuckles grazing against Dean’s thigh.

They’re about fifteen minutes in when Dean decides to man up and do something about it.

_“Not a dog, not a wolf,”_ the goose character — Boris — is saying. Jack, sitting with one knee propped up, settles his chin on his hands. _“All he knows is what he’s not. If only he could see what he is.”_

Dean only has to shift his hand a few inches to brush against Cas’s. He feels Cas go still — then slowly turn his palm up. A question.

Dean lines his own hand up deliberately. The heel of his palm to the hollow of Cas’s. He lets his thumb brush Cas’s knuckle, and then Cas is threading their fingers together, folding them down.

The fine bones of the back of his hand feel delicate under Dean’s fingertips. His thumb strokes absently over Dean’s — once, twice.

They’re holding hands.

No one can really see. Their hands are on the couch between them, tucked out of sight; it’s not like Sam’s looking anyway, or Jack. On the screen, a flock of wild geese cross the sky.

_“Homesick, Boris?”_ Balto asks. _“You ever think about going back?”_

_“Don’t fret, Fido. I’m sticking here until I’m sure you can stand on your own four feet.”_

“Just for the record,” says Sam after a few minutes, “this movie is wildly historically inaccurate. It wasn’t a single dog team that carried the medicine to Nome; it was a relay. Balto wasn’t half wolf, and while he did lead the team for the final leg to Nome, it was another dog — Togo — that led the longest and most difficult leg of the journey. If anything, Steele should be a hero, if he’s based on him.”

“Yeah, well, every hero needs a villain, Sammy,” says Dean. He’s pretty sure they’ve had this conversation before. “Next you’re gonna tell me there was no talking goose.”

Sam sighs. _“You were the fastest — what?”_ Steele asks Balto, vicious. _“Do you honestly think any musher would put you on his team?”_

Jack is leaning forward, engrossed in the story. Dean bites back another snarky comment.

If Jack’s their Balto — half one thing, half another, all good intentions and cruel outcomes — then Dean might be the Steele. He probably shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss a version of the story where he could be a hero too.

\---

When the movie’s over, Dean helps Cas clean up the kitchen. There isn’t a lot to take care of; just the popcorn bowl and a couple odds and ends, plates and mugs left out over the course of the day. Dean leans on the counter and watches the suds creep over Cas’s wrists and blurts, “I talked to a therapist today.”

Cas’s chin jerks up.

His eyes are wide blue and startled; they make him look ten years younger. Like he’s brand new to dealing with humanity, or at least to dealing with Dean. His mouth opens as if he’s got a question; then he closes it again.

“It’s not — nothing’s wrong,” Dean adds hastily. “I’ve just got — like I said, hangups — and I’m trying to not fuck this up, Cas. I’m really fucking trying to get this right.”

The shock on Cas’s face is fading to something equal parts worry and wonder. “Dean,” he says, “if going to Jenny Lake is too much — we don’t have to. I regret even proposing it.”

“It’s not too much.” Dean reaches, instinctively, for Cas’s hand; as if by equal instinct, Cas offers it. His fingers drip with dishwater. “It’s — it’s really not. I want to go.”

After a moment, Cas asks, softly, “But?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck.

He feels weird saying it. “I was just, uh — I wasn’t sure about sleeping arrangements.”

“Oh!” Cas’s eyes fly up from their joined hands, back to his face. “Dean — I’m sorry. I rented a cabin the last time I was there; I’ve arranged to stay there again. It has two bedrooms.”

Of course Cas thought of this already.

Dean feels as if his ribs are squeezing painfully. As if there’s too much feeling inside him, and it’s about to come leaking out. Cas is standing there looking at him, being perfect.

“Can I,” Dean croaks, “can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Cas breathes.

They kiss for a while by the sink. Cas leaves soapy handprints on Dean’s flannel. Afterward, back in his room, Dean keeps marveling at the sense memory tingling on his lips. He keeps raising his fingers to his mouth.

\---

The next morning, Dean takes a shower. He combs and styles his hair. He picks out a flannel that’s never gotten blood on it, and he sets up his laptop to talk to Mia.

He isn’t actually sure if he’s going to recognize her when she appears — maybe she’s changed faces again, for safety — but he does. She looks lovely, dangly earrings and a deep blue sweater pushed halfway up her arms. She gives him a warm smile that settles something nervous he didn’t even know was in his gut and says, “Dean.”

“Hey.” He fidgets with his laptop charging cord. “How’s your morning?”

“It’s been nice, thank you.”

Then she waits. Probably for him to say something.

“Right,” says Dean. “Well — I’m not really sure where to start.”

Her eyes crinkle. “When in doubt, the beginning’s often a good call.”

_The beginning._ Dean almost laughs. “Well, uh, I’m guessing you don’t mean the Book of Genesis, but —”

He tells her about God.

About Chuck Shurley, and the Winchester Gospels. About the cupid that made his parents fall in love, all those years ago; about Cain’s bloodline, and the Campbell hunting family, and the Men of Letters. About his mother’s death and Azazel’s special children. How little he knew about any of it, growing up; about his father’s obsession with revenge and life on the road.

“And Sammy, he uh, he was my job, you know? Looking out for him, keeping him safe. But I — couldn’t, in the end.”

There’s a lot he skips over. It’s all getting disorganized in his mind. He tells her about being Michael’s vessel — how that’s what he was supposed to be, and then that’s what he was, years later. About how Cas tried to stop him every time.

He tells her about Jack killing Mom. He has to back-track and explain about Mom coming back. Then he tells her about the gun Chuck put in his hand — the thing he asked. And how Dean nearly did it.

He sort of runs out after that. He’s raised two kids, he guesses, kind of, and he’s stood executioner over both of them; he’s put them both on their knees.

“Dean,” asks Mia, after he’s paused for a while, “I’m going to ask you to go back to one thing. You mentioned being sent to Hell.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s skin crawls; he kind of wishes she couldn’t see him, after all. “That was — this demon Alastair, he — trained me up. To torture people.”

“I imagine he tortured you first.”

Dean shrugs.

“The _purpose_ of torture is to make its victim powerless,” Mia says sharply. “To deprive them of agency and choice.”

He’s not sure how she’s cottoned on to him so quickly; he’s not sure he likes it. “I guess.”

“Dean. Did you feel — before you learned of Chuck’s manipulations, did you feel you had been able to act freely? Have you always felt safe in the belief that your life was your own?”

He should laugh. He should say yes. He should say the same shit he always said to everyone — _My life is awesome; I hunt monsters. I save the world._

But his lips are already twisting; a bitter snort is already scraping his breath. “Lady, I’m — my life’s _never_ been my own.”

“Tell me about that.”

“I mean, what the fuck do you want me to say? My dad raised me from jump as a — a tool. A soldier. Alastair, Michael, whatever, they were just — using what was made to be used.”

“Do you believe that?” Mia asks softly.

Dean shuts his eyes.

He fucking _wants_ to. It feels simpler, hating himself for that. It’s what he wants.

But it isn’t true. “No,” he admits, finally. “I — for a while, I thought — maybe I’d gotten free. Of all that shit. Like I — growing up, I dunno if I — knew the difference, you know? Between what _I_ wanted and — but I started to. Only it turns out I was wrong. All along, it was just — me as the puppet of some other puppet, and Chuck’s hand up all our asses. Doesn’t get much more pathetic than that.”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic.” He can’t quite read Mia’s voice. “I think it’s more than most people ever have to bear.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“Dean, I’d — I’d be glad to keep talking to you about this, going forward.” He opens his eyes, and she looks a little like she’s settling herself; from what, he’s not sure. “I think it takes real courage to explore the ramifications of your history like this, whether it’s an abusive parent, or an abusive relationship, or an abusive — Creator, I suppose. Capital C.”

She smiles. The joke does actually make him feel a little better; he huffs a breath that might be the edge of a laugh.

“But,” Mia continues, “I know that you have a date coming up this weekend. I think that for the rest of this session, we should focus specifically on what it is you need to feel equipped for that. Can you explain for me what, exactly, is making you nervous? How you feel these topics are connected?”

It seems pretty fucking obvious to Dean. _My whole life is a farce; why shouldn’t this be._ But what he blurts out is, “I’m scared I’m gonna sleep with him.”

She raises her eyebrows.

And yeah, even Dean can tell this is some classic therapy bullshit; she doesn’t need to tell him to go on.

“Um,” he says. “I mean, I — I’ve never been one for taking it slow. But I — wanted to do it different this time. Because it’s Cas.”

“Do you find sex frightening in general? Have you had difficult sexual experiences in the past?”

“No. Not really.” Dean thinks of his nightmare; he thinks of Alastair. He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean — difficult experiences, yeah, a long time ago, but — I like sex. I’m good at sex.” He needs her to get this, actually. “Like I don’t think it’s an unhealthy thing for me. Not like that. It’s just — a thing I can do for someone, and I feel good, and they feel good, and then it’s done, and we both go on our way.”

“Do you feel that if you have sex with Cas, he will be done, and go on his way?”

It sounds stupid when she says it out loud like that. “Uh, yeah, I guess. I know it’s dumb.”

“Our dumbest fears are often our best founded fears, when viewed through the lens of our life experience.” Mia leans forward. “Dean — I suspect I know your answer, but would you say that your emotional needs were met as a child?”

She says it like it’s an obvious leap. Like it’s supposed to be an easy question.

He feels even dumber. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you were afraid — did someone comfort you? When you needed a hug, was someone there to give you one?”

“I didn’t need that stuff.” It’s the wrong answer; he knows it’s the wrong answer, but it’s the only one he can fathom to give.

But if he’s disappointed her, she doesn’t show it. “Let me ask you another way. When you think back to childhood — did you feel good about yourself? What, specifically, made you feel good about yourself?”

That one, at least, is easy. “When Sammy was happy. Or my dad. Or, uh, when I did good at something, like — shotgun practice or whatever.”

He’s pretty sure he sounds like a caricature of himself.

Mia says, gently, “I think you were raised to mold yourself to others’ needs — and not to honor your own. It’s no wonder you fear that Cas will leave you if you fulfill his.”

Dean’s heart is thumping. “So you think I’m right? He will?”

“What do you think?”

Cas has left him so goddamn many times.

Heat prickles at Dean’s eyes; he closes them. His blood pulses in his ears, a dull roar.

He wants to tell the truth. He wants to. But it’s so damn hard.

“He used to,” he scrapes out, “uh — he used to leave a lot. But I don’t think he will anymore. I mean, he said he wouldn’t. I mean — he said I should’ve stopped him.”

He feels ten times lighter for saying it out loud.

“Do you believe him?”

“Yeah.” His voice feels stronger now. “I — yeah.”

“And do you think he’s manipulating you?”

“No.”

“Do you think he’s being manipulated?”

Dean’s seen Cas get manipulated — a tool of Heaven. Brainwashed by angels; possessed by Lucifer. He’s seen Cas manipulate _him,_ for that matter — when he was working with Crowley, when he came into Dean’s room for the Colt —

He didn’t know it at the time. He’d know it now. All of it.

“No,” he says again, and he doesn’t feel afraid.

#### (3.)

On Friday morning, Dean meets Cas bright and early in the garage.

Cas comes bearing a tackle box and two fishing rods. Over his trenchcoat, he’s wearing a green mesh vest with an enormous number of pockets. Dean takes one look at him and doubles over laughing.

Cas watches him like he’s trying to look offended, but it more just comes across as fond. “You should be glad,” he says gravely, “I didn’t let them sell me one of the floppy hats.”

“Cas,” says Dean, when he catches his breath and finds his balance with one hand on the Impala, “I love you.”

“And I you, Dean Winchester.” But before Dean can choke on that, stop and realize what he’s just said and how badly he _means_ it and how fucked he is by, by all of this, Cas holds up an enormous thermos in one hand. “I made coffee.”

Instead of blurting out _marry me_ or any other awkward declarations, Dean closes his eyes and lets out a grateful moan.

When he opens them again, Cas is looking at him in a way he doesn’t really know how to deal with. He swallows, and licks his lips, and asks, “Your car, or mine?”

The corners of Cas’s eyes crinkle again in a smile. “Yours.”

“Okay,” says Dean, fishing the keys out of his pocket, “but you’re driving.”

Cas gives him a suspicious look. “Are you going to go back to sleep?”

“Nah.” Dean deposits the keys in Cas’s palm, letting their fingers brush; then he grabs hold of Cas’s hand to pull him close. Cas staggers, off balance — then freezes at the touch of Dean’s lips.

It’s only a brief kiss, really — just a peck on the lips. But Dean feels Cas melt, a little; feels his muscles humming with desire for more.

He turns his face so their cheekbones brush, leaning close. He murmurs in Cas’s ear, “Just don’t wanna take my eyes off you.”

When he draws back, Cas looks flushed and flustered, pink spots on each of his cheeks. Dean grins and winks at him.

Cas rolls his eyes. But when they finish loading, he slides into Baby’s driver’s seat.

\---

It makes Dean feel some kind of way, really — some _extremely nice_ kind of way — to watch Cas behind the wheel of his best girl.

He doesn’t let just anyone drive her. He doesn’t even like it when Sam does, really, though forty changes your perspective on what sacrifices are worth it for your beauty sleep. Teaching Jack was — well, that was special. But Cas —

Dean watches Cas’s hands on the wheel; long fingers, blunt nails. His thumb curls around the cross-piece. He makes a corner, hand over hand, and Dean stretches out in his seat, feeling Baby rumble up under him. He switches to watching Cas’s face.

Cas’s nose is sharp in profile. The set of his jaw is looser than usual; closer to a smile. Sunlight lines his features whenever the road curves south. Dean might want to reach out and touch if he didn’t also want to look until his eyes are full.

Cas spares him a glance from time to time, blue and fond. “Drink your coffee,” he says, once they’re on the highway, and Dean realizes he completely forgot it was there.

He lets his mind wander as he breathes in the caffeine steam. _Are there any other reasons, besides having sex with you, that Cas would have proposed this particular date?_

_“Yeah,” Dean tells Mia. “It’s one of the places he lived when he left. I think he wants to show me around. And — well, he knows I like fishing.”_

_“Are you afraid he’ll make unwanted advances?”_

_The questions make him squirm — but they’re good questions. Questions that remind him where the issues lie. “No. I’m afraid I will.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I guess I’m scared I’ll, like — panic. And it’ll seem easier to just make it a physical thing, ‘cause that’s something I know how to deal with, you know? But it’ll be because I’m scared, not like — for good reasons.”_

_“Do you have any strategies in mind to recognize and deal with that panic?”_

_“Well, uh. I told him that I wanted to wait for the third date. And I explained why, kind of, just that I’ve got — hangups and stuff.”_

_“Did he seem to understand that? To be okay with it?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“That’s great, Dean. I think you’re doing very well with understanding your needs and communicating them. With setting healthy boundaries.”_

_Dean’s kind of confounded. That doesn’t sound like him._

“What are you thinking about?” Cas asks.

It makes Dean jump. He avoids spilling coffee, barely; he sits up straighter in his seat. “What?”

“You went away for a moment there. I’m curious what you were thinking about.”

Dean flushes. But there’s no reason not to be honest, so he says, “I was thinking about, uh — therapy.”

He sees Cas’s eyes widen, fractionally. His fingers tighten on Baby’s wheel, like he’s not sure what he can ask; how he can answer.

Suddenly, Dean wants to tell him everything. _It was so fun telling someone about you. I could talk about you for fucking days._ But what comes out of his mouth is, “She thinks I should tell you about — when you died.”

Cas’s face sharpens, somehow; he glances over at Dean once, twice. “When I died?”

“Yeah. When Lucifer killed you. Before Jack brought you back. I was — that’s when we met her, you know.”

“Right,” says Cas, softly, after a beat.

Dean’s doing this, apparently; he clears his throat. “So she, uh. She had a sense of how fucked up we all were back then — I mean, losing you, losing Mom, everything else.”

Does he imagine the way Cas’s shoulders suddenly ease — like the tension’s gone out of him? Does Cas think Mom’s disappearance was the main event?

“But me especially,” Dean says. “I was especially fucked up.”

A muscle works in Cas’s jaw.

“I _burned_ you, Cas,” and Dean’s voice breaks.

Cas’s hand reaches out blindly. It finds Dean’s shoulder; he keeps his eyes on the road. He holds on tight, though. Clamps his fingers down where they once pulled Dean out of Hell and just — holds on.

“I, uh. I killed myself, later.” Dean feels Cas’s twitch of alarm and raises his own hand to cover Cas’s. “Not — on purpose. I mean, it was dumb. It was on a case; I thought I could talk to the ghosts, find out some info. Just left poor Sammy sitting there watching me. It didn’t — I nearly didn’t get back.”

“I am very,” Cas says, in a kind of shell-shocked voice, “glad you did.”

Dean laughs at that. “Yeah — yeah, me too. That was the day you called us. Same day. And then — after that, I felt like I could jump over the fucking moon.”

“I thought that was the cowboys’ doing.”

Dean shoves at him. “Hey, fuck you.”

Cas drops his hand from Dean’s shoulder, but Dean catches it again before he can withdraw. They wind up holding hands across the seat. The leather is smooth against Dean’s knuckles.

“Anyway. Mia thought maybe — I should tell you. Like, maybe you didn’t know.”

Cas doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand, either. Not for many miles; not until Dean needs it back to pour himself more coffee.

\---

Wyoming comes with gusty winds, rocking the Impala on her axles. Dean thinks about offering to take a shift driving, but Cas — well, Cas might think he’s impatient to take back the wheel, and that’s not what Dean wants. That’s not what Dean wants at all.

There’s something so simple in letting Cas take control. Simpler than with anyone else Dean’s ever known; he feels safe like this. He feels whole.

_“Let’s think more about boundaries for a minute. Do you know what your boundary is for this date, in particular? Have you thought about it?”_

_Dean feels himself blushing. “I mean, uh. We’ve already been doing some — making out. I’d be into more of that. Just, maybe — maybe the clothes stay on.”_

_“That’s good,” Mia says. “Bear that in mind, and if you feel the need, communicate it to Cas. It’ll be easier for him to know your comfort level. And remember you can always change your mind — if you don’t want to make out, you can say no, even if you said yes earlier.”_

_“Hey. I know about consent.” Dean feels a little offended._

_But Mia just smiles. “That’s great. Honestly, Dean, you’re doing great. You’re understandably anxious, but you’re taking all the right steps to care for yourself and Cas. While going through a transition that can be a scary one — but also very rewarding.”_

_She makes it sound like a kid leaving for college or something. Dean snorts; he glances down at his watch. “Oh, shit. We went over.”_

_“That’s all right,” Mia says smoothly. “Managing time here is my responsibility, not yours. I chose to let us run long. In this circumstance, managing my needs is not your problem.”_

_“Oh,” says Dean again. He feels kind of confused. “Okay. I guess.”_

He thinks about making out with Cas. He thinks about doing it on a bed, maybe, their bodies stretched long and flush, hip to hip. Or — on a couch. That seems safer.

This whole thing seems kind of silly. It’s not like Dean’s some blushing virgin. He _wants_ Cas, wants him badly, and Cas — seems to maybe feel the same about him. He’s not an idiot, either; he could have sex without pitching himself into a tailspin. Probably. Maybe.

“Are you sure you’re okay with — separate rooms?” he asks. “With waiting, I mean?”

Cas looks over at him, confused. “Of course, Dean.”

Jesus, just Cas’s eyes are fucking him up. He feels goosebumps rise on his skin. “It’s not ‘cause — I don’t want to do stuff. I, uh. Really, _really_ want to do stuff.”

For a moment, Cas looks confused; then his expression clears. “But you want experience with just-dating first.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, I guess.”

Cas nods, serious. “That might be a good thing. I’m not sure fish guts really set the mood.”

\---

“Uh,” says Dean several hours later. The sun is setting; they’re sitting on the dock in front of the cabin. The water is orange and rippling, trees all hazed with gold, and it might be the most beautiful place Dean’s ever been. “About those fish guts.”

Cas twitches his line. “Yes?”

“I don’t — really love that part.” The back of Dean’s neck feels hot. “I mean, I know I kill things all the time, but — I dunno. With fishing I mostly like just — sitting here. You know?”

The smile that spreads on Cas’s face is more beautiful than the sunset. “I would be glad to just sit here with you, Dean.”

“Good. That’s — good.” Dean reaches into the cooler. He passes Cas another beer.

#### (4.)

Late that night, Dean lies awake in his little bedroom and stares at the ceiling and thinks about Cas, and Cas, and Cas.

He thinks about Cas driving and Cas fishing. Cas checking them in at the hardware store, which apparently manages Mr. Doweling’s rentals; Cas fitting the key to the cabin door. He thinks about the woman at the desk looking surprised and calling Cas _Clarence,_ and about Cas looking embarrassed and introducing his friend, Dean.

_Boyfriend,_ Dean told her, in a sudden fit of stubbornness. _Actually._

He apologized afterward. But Cas told him not to; Cas bunched his hands in Dean’s flannel and kissed him breathless just inside the door.

He extracted a promise from Cas later that tomorrow night, they’re gonna rewatch _True Romance._ He’s not sure why he didn’t say tonight; he’s not sleepy. He could stay up watching movies until dawn.

He knows why he didn’t say tonight. He’s been watching Cas drive Baby all day, and he’s just about wrecked. He doesn’t think he can sit next to Cas on the couch, inches away, in the light of a flickering TV screen and not just — break. Just pivot sideways — swing one knee wide, over Cas’s lap — and take Cas’s face in both hands and kiss him and give him _whatever he wants._

He imagines Cas’s hips hitching up under him. Cas’s breath catching in his throat. He imagines Cas saying _Please,_ and he imagines about losing his own damn mind about it; he imagines undoing the buttons of Cas’s shirt, one by one. Unknotting his tie.

He could sink to his knees between Cas’s legs. He could reach for Cas’s belt and — and —

Involuntarily, Dean moans low in his throat. He’s been feeling horny all day, but now he’s _hard,_ achingly hard; he reaches down to palm his dick. _Not now,_ he tries to tell it. _I really just — need you to chill out._

It’s not gonna get any better, though. Not if he doesn’t do anything about it.

It feels so fucking good to finally reach inside his boxers. His back arches at the touch; he bites his lip. With his free hand, he rucks up his t-shirt and imagines Cas doing this. Cas, pinching his nipple between two fingers, rolling it. Cas, squeezing the base of his dick.

Cas would be so fucking good at this. He’s got the right kind of confidence; equal parts earned and unschooled. He’d go by instinct, Dean’s sure he would. And he’d be fucking incredible.

He imagines Cas hooking a thumb in his mouth — letting Dean briefly suck it. He imagines Cas bending low to kiss him. Cas rubbing his own dick against Dean’s; catching them both in one hand. Jacking them together.

He imagines Cas with Dean’s name on his lips, Cas with his pupils enormous and hair messy and chest bare, Cas in the blue half-light —

He doesn’t realize he’s mumbling Cas’s name out loud until a knock sounds on the door, and it opens.

Dean freezes, hand still down his boxers. He’s thrown off the covers. There’s no way not to tell what he’s doing.

“Dean?” says Cas’s voice in the dark. It _is_ dark, darker even than the room in his fantasy; maybe Cas won’t be able to see him. Dean holds very still. “Are you — _oh.”_

That _oh_ hits Dean right in the bottom of his gut.

Because it’s shocked, but it’s also heated; because Cas’s voice just dropped a full goddamn octave. Because Cas just walked into Dean’s bedroom and saw him touching himself and stopped dead — and didn’t turn around.

“I’m sorry,” Cas is saying now, quickly. “I thought you were in distress, I’ll — I’ll leave now, I —”

Dean’s voice comes out, throaty, before he can second-guess it. “What if you didn’t?”

Cas goes very still.

A moment later, though, he’s shaking his head. “No. Dean, I — I don’t want to violate your boundaries. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not.” Dean strokes himself, again, slowly, because he can’t help it; his eyes are adjusting to the sliver of light from the living room. He sees Cas bite his lip. “We said — nothing under the clothes. This isn’t. This is just — watching.”

Cas makes a _sound_ in his throat.

It rocks through Dean’s whole body; _Jesus._ He squeezes, again, at the base of his dick. His voice comes out ragged, wrecked. “You wanna watch me, Cas?”

For a long moment, Cas doesn’t answer.

Slowly, disappointment starts to climb Dean’s spine; then embarrassment. He’s coming on way too fucking strong. Cas doesn’t want any part of this — this voyeurism shit, and Dean was dumb to suggest it. It’s just an awkward mistake, and Dean shouldn’t have pushed, shouldn’t have —

Cas says, “Take off your boxers.”

Dean stops breathing.

He starts again a moment later. No way is he gonna pass out and miss this.

He scrambles to get his boxers off, catching them awkwardly for a second on his dick. He drops them off the side of the bed, and feels Cas’s eyes follow them. Then follow his hand back up.

Cas doesn’t move from the doorway. He doesn’t offer any further instruction. He just watches, eyes hungry, as Dean curls his fingers around his balls; as he takes his dick in his hand again, long, smooth strokes. As Dean shuts his eyes and arches his neck and digs his shoulders into the bed; as he splays his legs wide. Cas watches Dean touch his own ribs, his chest, his throat. Cas watches him take himself apart.

Dean opens his eyes again before he comes. Cas’s eyes are locked on him, enormous, transfixed; Dean gasps through a shudder that starts at the soles of his feet. Cas sucks in a breath and says, _“Dean,”_ and Dean’s coming, coming harder than he has in years, vision fuzzing and toes curling, whole body shaking as he stripes across his own belly, his chest.

He comes down slowly. It takes him a minute to regain his bearings. Cas hasn’t moved from the door.

Dean’s an absolute mess. An absolute, debauched mess.

“That wasn’t,” he tries, in a scratchy voice, wincing. “That wasn’t too much, was it?”

“You can never be too much.” Cas sounds awed. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Right,” says Dean.

Cas slips back out of his doorway before he can ask him anything more.

#### (5.)

The morning isn’t awkward. Dean might’ve expected it to be, except he didn’t, really; that’s the funny thing about Cas. He’s awkward about things that don’t matter, but he’s perfect when they do.

Cas kisses him against the counter by the cereal boxes. Dean hasn’t brushed his teeth yet; his mouth feels like something died in it. Cas doesn’t seem to care.

After breakfast, they go to the bait shop. “Hey, Clarence,” says the guy behind the counter, and Cas tugs Dean closer to his hip and says, “This is the friend I was telling you about. Who inspired me to learn about fishing.” Then, an instant later, he corrects himself: “Boyfriend.”

Dean feels his body go hot all over.

The sales guy looks over them slowly — eyes traveling from Cas to Dean and back again. Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds approving. “Meditative qualities, right?”

Dean’s pretty sure he never said any shit like that. But he nods along anyway, because it seems like the thing to do.

The door jingles behind them as they’re in the middle of checking out, and when Cas turns, his voice registers warm surprise: “Melly!”

“Clarence! Hey.” The woman standing there is middle-aged, pretty; Dean fights down the irrational rush of sudden jealousy. She glances over at him. “Oh, is this —”

“This is Dean,” says Cas, “my boyfriend.”

Melly looks over him slowly. Then, her face splits into a grin.

“Good for you,” she says. She punches Cas in the arm. “Hey, are you around? We’d love to have you over for dinner — Caleb and I.”

Dean glances swiftly at Cas. But Cas is already shaking his head, smiling; “No, thank you. But I’ll let you know next time I’m in town.”

Melly glances between them again. She straight-up fucking _winks._ Dean chokes.

For a moment he thinks that everyone in this town can see it written on him somehow: _Last night I asked Cas to watch me jerk off. Last night he did._ It feels almost weirder, more intimate, than sex.

He feels like he almost wouldn’t mind them all knowing. Not if Cas likes it. He imagines, fleetingly, Cas staying up all night texting his townie friends: _Do you know what Dean did now —_

It’s ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. He knows he is. But the heat on the back of his neck feels kind of nice. It feels nice to just be — Cas’s. For no one to need to know anything more about him than that.

\---

“Hey,” Dean says, a few hours later. They’ve packed a picnic lunch and hiked halfway around the lake; they’re sitting on adjacent rocks now, fishing lines floating lazily on the water. “Can I ask — why’d you want to bring me here? Like, here, specifically?”

Cas glances briefly over at him, then squints up at the sun. He takes a moment to answer.

“Because,” he says, finally, “because it’s — a place I went to be without you. And I was. But so much of it — so much of what I loved about it — was _because_ of you.”

He sets down the words with care, like sun-warmed stones. But Dean shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. I — I don’t get it.”

Cas ticks off on his fingers. “I spent my days fishing — something you loved; something you taught Jack to do. I worked my own case, and solved it. I killed a djinn. Do you remember — do you remember teaching me to hunt?”

Of course Dean remembers. He nods, throat suddenly tight.

“I made — friends. I’ve always admired your ability to do that. I did so many things on my own, but all of them — all of them made me think of you. You were always there, in everything. And so, I thought — I wanted you to be here for real. Not only in my mind.”

Dean’s eyes are prickling; his chest burns. “I — Cas,” he says. “Have you ever — been put under by a djinn? Like, did you see the world they made for you?”

It’s been a while since he’s been in that spot himself. There have been other things, though; the bar Michael built to hold him. Dean thinks of this town and that cabin and this afternoon sunlight with Cas, and thinks a djinn could come up with worse dreams to lock him in.

“Yes,” says Cas, “but not this one. In Syria — some years ago.”

Dean swallows. “You don’t have to tell me what it was like —”

But Cas interrupts him. “I was with you. We were very happy.”

\---

They spend half the day by the lake, watching the sun travel over the water. They catch a few fish — rainbows, mostly, one cutthroat — and toss them back. Dean tells fishing stories. Ones his dad used to tell, ones he picked up from Bobby, from strangers in bars along the way. Cas laughs at all the right parts.

They go out for burgers at the local bar. It’s got a mechanical bull; Dean thinks about riding it for Cas. Showing off. He’s not really in the mood for it, though. Maybe they’ll be here again sometime.

Back at the cabin, they sit outside for a while, watching the sun set. They set the green cooler between them. Dean thinks about how many shittier moments he’s had with this thing; how, of all the times he’s reached inside it — the bump of the lid familiar on the back of his wrist — this might be the best one. He takes a pull of his beer.

He used to think happiness didn’t fit with his life. That it was fine; just different. Sometimes he’d dream about being a rock star, sure, or about Lisa Braeden and white picket fences, but he never used to dream about sitting on a dock with Cas and a cold beer and all the colors in the world glancing off rippling water and lodging inside of his chest.

That’s a lie. He _did_ dream about this, once. He just didn’t know he was dreaming. Not like that.

\---

“This — isn’t really just-dating,” Dean says to Cas, a while later; they’re hip to hip on the couch, credits of _True Romance_ rolling. “Is it.”

Cas stirs, and his elbow jostles Dean’s ribs. “I can’t imagine how you expect me to answer that. You’re the one with the experience.”

“No, I mean.” Dean licks his lips; he feels unaccountably nervous. “It’s not — we’re not — there’s no way it can be just-dating, even if we do all the just-dating things. I mean, we’ve been — whatever-this-is, we’ve been it for years. Right?”

It takes Cas a while to answer. Dean wonders if he’s thinking, too, about that dock by a lake in a dream — a decade ago now. More. “I have,” he eventually says.

Dean swallows and plunges on. “So, like, the sex thing. It’s not ‘cause I don’t want you to — see every part of me. I mean, I’m guessing you kind of already have.”

“I’ve touched the deepest parts of your soul,” Cas agrees. “It was — I barely survived the experience.”

Dean gapes.

“Jeez,” he manages after a moment, “well — thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Cas doubles over laughing.

It’s full-throated, unbridled; he’s wheezing. He looks beautiful. “I’m — sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry.” He straightens, wiping tears from his eyes. “Souls, they’re — pure cosmic energy, I’m sure I’ve said. They burn bright. And then — _yours._ It’s like trying to hold the sun.”

Dean isn’t sure how to process that last part, but Cas is smiling, and so Dean does too. “But, so, like. You know things about me. And I get that. Like, things I didn’t have to tell you — and probably some things I never _would_ tell you. Am I wrong?”

“You aren’t.”

“So —” Dean bites the tip of his tongue, then goes on “— you’ve seen me naked before. You’ve seen me — jerk off, you’ve seen me have sex before.”

“Yes.” Cas answers the question easily, and Dean has to fight down a shiver, fold his fingers carefully over his knees.

“But not ‘cause — not _‘cause_ of you?”

Maybe Cas _has._ There have been enough times Dean thought about him jerking off; hell, he’s maybe even thought about Cas when he was in bed with somebody else. A time or two.

But there’s got to be a line. Cas knows the stuff from — from before he raised Dean. The stuff after — that’s different. It’s got to be.

“Not because of me,” Cas agrees softly, and his eyes are on Dean’s face, and they’re casting heat.

Dean swallows. He closes his eyes. He tries to be fucking brave.

“I’m not saying — I’m not changing the rules. I still gotta — I still want to wait, ‘cause it’s not — it’s not about what _you_ know, really, it’s about what _I_ know. Like, Mia thinks — Mia says I maybe got fucked up as a kid, like I started thinking it was about what I could do for people and they’d leave if I couldn’t or — I guess also if I could, and then I never really stopped. But you never left. Or — you did, I guess, but you always came back.”

Cas is quiet for a while. The movie credits have faded, the screen blank, but still shedding light that frames the thoughtful look on his face. Dean wonders if he understands what Dean’s trying to say, the pieces he doesn’t have words for yet; the fear of speaking their history into light. The _what if I read it wrong. What if I can’t remember — or can’t remember the right bits._ The _will you share this story with me, and help me believe that it’s real? Will you tell me you always came back?_

Cas says, slowly, “In the Empty — when I woke up. It tried to convince me to give up. To go back to sleep. It tried to tell me — there was nothing for me here.”

Dean looks up at him swiftly.

There’s a terrible sadness and tenderness in Cas’s eyes. Like there’s something he wants to say, still, and can’t — and what the fuck does he think Dean won’t let him say? Is there something in Dean he’s still afraid of?

He wants to tell Cas not to be afraid. He wants to tell Cas to crawl inside of him, turn him inside out; that Cas can do anything to Dean, say anything to Dean, anything in the world he wants. But his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, and Cas is _looking_ at him, like — like he’s the goddamn Mona Lisa or something. Like he’s stars.

Dean could try, he thinks, to be worth that look in Cas’s eyes.

Slowly, Cas opens his mouth. Then he closes it. He looks down at his hands in his lap.

The ice maker clunks loudly from the kitchen.

They both jump. And then Dean is laughing; he can’t help himself. He ducks his head to Cas’s shoulder, bumps his cheekbone against the hard nub of Cas’s collarbone, and Cas’s hand rises easily to cup his jaw. His thumb strokes once over Dean’s stubble, idle, and then he says, “The Empty was wrong.”

“It was _wrong,”_ Dean agrees, fervent, half-muffled against Cas’s shirt.

“I mean, though.” Cas lifts Dean’s chin so he can turn to look at him, eyes serious, only inches away. “It was wrong no matter what. It was _wrong._ Even if you had nothing to offer me, Dean — nothing to return — it was still wrong. You are still more than worth living for. _I_ am still more than worth living for.”

Dean’s been thinking about what to ask next. If Cas wants to — watch him again. If he wants to — maybe — watch each other.

That goes out the window. He doesn’t want distance. He wants to be as close as they can possibly be. “Cas,” he croaks out, “will you — kiss me?”

Cas does.

He kisses Dean with his fingers rayed across Dean’s face, one tickling Dean’s eyelashes, one tucked behind Dean’s ear. He kisses Dean like his mouth is something that needs to be tasted, slowly, like he can only handle so much at once. He kisses Dean back onto the couch cushions and keeps kissing him, hands tangled, chest warm and solid against his chest.

How long they stay like that, Dean doesn’t know. He lets his hands roam over Cas’s body, lets himself hitch into Cas’s touch. They both cheat a few times — a little bit. Fingers slipping underneath hems, finding heat. Dean wants to touch all of Cas — everything. He wants Cas to touch all of him.

They don’t, though. They make out on the couch until time seems to slip away, and then Cas gets up and picks Dean up bodily, one arm under his shoulders, one under his knees, and carries him to bed. Dean’s floating pleasantly on a cloud of tiredness. He lets Cas help undress him. He lets Cas tuck him into bed.

When Cas leaves, Dean turns his face into the pillow and smiles. He’s still thinking about Cas’s hands, Cas’s mouth, when he falls asleep.

#### (6.)

They take the drive home in shifts. Cas drives the first few hours, out of the mountains, while Dean has a religious experience with his coffee; they switch off at a truck stop near Lander. The sky is wide and blue and cloudless today, the wind making fields of turbines turn busily, rolling flocks of tumbleweed down the side of the highway and snarling them in barbed wire.

Dean watches the other cars they pass as he drives. Semis in orderly convoys and families on their way home from vacation, frazzled parents bent over steering wheels. The occasional lonely drifter, like he used to be, with no one to sit in their passenger seat.

Baby draws eyes; she always does. Dean tips a nod sometimes to another driver with an especially appreciative gaze.

It’s a good world, he thinks. He’s glad to live in it. He’s glad to have people to share it with.

They trade again in Cheyenne. Dean watches Cas drive and asks, “So is it too soon to start planning that third date?”

Cas glances over at Dean like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. There’s a smile tucked into the corners of his mouth as he asks, “Were you going to take me dancing?”

Dean holds his gaze and calls his bluff. “If that’s what you want, Cas.”

“Well.” Cas is trying to keep his face solemn, but humor sparks in his eyes. “Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

“Yeah,” says Dean softly, “I know.”

Cas looks over at him again, a swift dart of a glance. Then he smiles.

\---

Something Dean wonders sometimes is whether he puts too much on Cas.

It’s a lot, to save a guy from Hell and fall in love with him. To watch him fall in love with you. To know that you’re the dividing line between what he trusts and what he doesn’t; that you’re the thing he believes in.

Maybe it isn’t fair. Maybe Dean’s pinning too many of his hopes, too much of his self, on one guy. It’s what he’s trained to do, after all; grew up with no one to rely on but Sam and his dad and himself. He should talk to Mia about it, probably. But he kind of already knows what he’ll say.

_I believe I’m real because he told me I was,_ he’ll tell her. _But I don’t need him to keep telling me. I could probably — tell him next time. If he ever forgets._

It might not be perfect. But he thinks he’s doing pretty damn good. For a Winchester, at least.

\---

The sun’s setting in the rearview and they’re a few miles shy of turning south toward Kansas when Dean’s phone rings.

It’s Sam. Dean thumbs on speaker, glances over at Cas, and drops the phone on the seat between them. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Dean.” Sam sounds a little relieved. “Sorry if I’m interrupting you guys. I — it’s Billie. She showed up at the bunker; says Chuck is just about done destroying the other worlds. It’s go time. Soon.”

“All right.” Dean thinks of families in minivans; of a mom’s envious glance at his Baby’s sleek lines. He thinks of Melly and Caleb and their invitation to dinner. Of Caitlin at the pizza place and her promise to teach him and Cas to dance. “We’re coming into Kearney, be home soon. He’s not destroying this one.”

When Sam hangs up, he exchanges a look with Cas. His face is serious — concerned. Dean shoots him a smile.

“Rain check on that date, I guess?”

That makes Cas’s eyes crinkle. “I’ll be here. I promise.”

Dean’s chest feels warm. He returns his gaze to the road. And he points his wheel toward home.

**Author's Note:**

> _[Expanded content warning: Early in the fic, Dean has a pretty disturbing nightmare. It starts as a sex dream about Cas but turns into a nightmare as he realizes he's being watched by Chuck. Several other people from his past appear as well. If you want to skip it, jump from "He’s unconscious almost before he hits the pillow, his phone cradled against his chest" to "When he checks his phone, he winces."]_
> 
> As you can probably tell... I'm planning to write Third Date sometime. It's going to take us to a post-Chuck-resolution world, and while there may be some angst on the way, I'm firmly committed to a blue-sky endgame in this 'verse: bunker, everyone alive, all good.
> 
> (That said, I do want to ask: can we keep any SPN writer vitriol to locations other than my comment inbox? I love a lot of what they've done and get bummed out by negativity. Thank you guys <3)
> 
> This is on [tumblr](https://gravelghosts.tumblr.com/post/635876955490844672/second-date-spn-fic-1514-divergent-deancas) if that's your jam.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Happy American Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it, and happy Thursday to everyone else. <3


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